


thief of the night, come (come steal what’s yours)

by SmilinStar



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, F/M, timecanaryweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 22:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11609958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: Instead, he asks, voice still that damned whisper in her ear, “what is it this time? The jewel or the Manet?”“Neither,” she lies.“Ah,” he nods, and she can imagine the half twist of his lips into a mockery of a smile as he determines, “both, then?”





	thief of the night, come (come steal what’s yours)

 

:::::

 

“Fancy seeing you here, Miss Lance?”

The British accent. The bored, unimpressed tone. The sarcastic lilt to every syllable spoken. The warm, champagne tainted breath prickling against the outer shell of her ear. The imperceptible frisson she barely keeps in check. The spark of something she recognises, but has no time for, igniting under her skin.

It’s all familiar.

_Too familiar._

This is beyond a joke now.

“Are you stalking me, Hunter? Your obsession with me, though flattering, is getting a little embarrassing, don’t you think?” She doesn’t turn to face him, eyes scanning the grand exhibition hall, as her blood red lipstick stains her glass with another careful sip.

She feels him press in beside her, a glimpse of his black tux, all she’ll allow herself. She is not in the mood for distractions. Not tonight.

He neither admits nor denies it. Not feeling the need to, and it only irritates her further. His confidence, bleeding into arrogance. Instead, he asks, voice still that damned whisper in her ear, “what is it this time? The jewel or the Manet?”

“Neither,” she lies.

“Ah,” he nods, and she can imagine the half twist of his lips into a mockery of a smile as he determines, “ _both_ , then?”

This time she does turn to face him, lifting her eyes to meet his, unsurprised to find them already gazing straight at her. She gives him a slow smile, and a wink, and he’s still terrible at hiding his reactions to her as his eyes widen just a little, drop to follow the curve of her lips, and a fetching blush creeps onto his cheeks.

“Oh Detective. Why do you always presume the worst of me? You sure know how to hurt a girl’s feelings!”

He huffs, the breath warm against her face as he then shakes his head and looks away, “oh I don’t know? Maybe because every time a wealthy socialite or heiress reports a missing diamond necklace or tiara, you’ve been at the scene of the crime the night before. And please,” he adds, eyes sweeping up and down her curve-skimming black gown, “you’re no girl.”

Her skin burns under the trail of his gaze, and as his green eyes find hers again, she thinks _fuck it_. Everything else can wait.

“You’re getting bold, Rip Hunter. I like it.”

“Yes well, it appears you’ve had more of an effect on me than I’d like to admit.”

“Sweet talking will get you nowhere.”

“No,” he says with a wry smile, “I don’t suppose it will.” His fingers brush hers then as he slips the glass from out of her grasp, and without looking places it onto the outstretched tray of a passing waiter. She _is not_ impressed, _she’s not;_ pastes an impassive look on her face with some effort instead, and eyes the hand he offers her with as much indifference as she can muster. “Care for a dance, Miss Lance?”

“Not really,” she lies once more, before slipping her hand into his anyway.

He leads her onto the dancefloor, then proceeds to lead her around the ballroom effortlessly as the orchestra starts up a waltz. They fit together seamlessly, her smaller hand in his, his other pressing heavy and warm on her back, daring lower than it ever has before. There’s hardly any air between them and she thinks neither one of them are oblivious to what’s burning between them, feeding on the oxygen in the room, until she’s gasping for breath and the only thing left for her to do is steal away his too.

And so she does.

If she can’t have the jewels or the painting tonight, she can have what she came for at least.

_Him._

She paints his lips red with her own then, and when she pulls back, out of breath and heart racing more than she’d care to admit, to find him staring back at her with pupils blown wide against rings of molten green, she recognises the moment for what it is.

The moment she knows she’s in trouble.

Like the flash of blue and red, and the wail of sirens that follows. The smell of burning rubber and lungs on fire as she runs.

It’s the kind of trouble she lives for.

The kind of trouble she could fall in love with.

And it feels like flying.

The next time she kisses him, she kisses him slow. Pulls him down to meet her and he doesn’t resist. Hands gentle against the press of his chest, and she feels his own heart running its own traitorous sprint under her fingertips, and it gives her hope. She pulls away only to breathe against his parted lips, one word.

Just the one.

“Rip.”

He says nothing.

But doesn’t let go of her hand. And _that_ she thinks is all the answer she needs as she pulls, leading them both into the night.

 

:::::

 

Rip wakes to soft cotton sheets, and the lingering smell of perfume, sweat and regret.

He’s not surprised to find her gone.

He had expected it.

Just as he expects his phone to beep then, vibrating there on the bedside table of her empty hotel room.

It’s a link to a news article.

**RARE JEWELLED TIARA AND $100M MANET**

**STOLEN FROM MET FUNDRAISER!**

There’s no number attached to the message, but then he’s never needed one.

He always knows.

It’s why he let himself fall into her trap, at least that’s what he tells himself. Because he’s not an idiot. Not stupid enough to fall into the gravity of ineffable charm that is Sara Lance without a safety harness. Not stupid enough to truly fall in love with her, he convinces himself. Over and over. Not stupid enough to believe for a moment that whatever it is between them _is real._

It’s why he played along; only so that he could get close enough to plant the tracker . . . _the tracker that is currently sitting, blinking up at him on her pillow._

Because although he’s good, _she’s better._

“Bollocks,” he swears under his breath.

There’s a note with it. _Of course there is_ , he thinks, as he swipes it up, heart an erratic hammer against his chest.

 _I guess you’re my alibi_ , is all it says, with an imprint of her lipstick just below. A kiss meant to tease and taunt.

He snorts, doesn’t know how she figures that one out until he actually spots it. The article. The times don’t add up, because at the approximate time of when the pieces were reportedly stolen, _she was . . . they were . . ._

Which means . . .

He breathes out.

_“Bollocks.”_

She’s not just better.

She’s _bloody brilliant_.

And _he?_

He is completely and utterly _stupid._

And some day he might just do something about it.

 

**End**

 


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